Butane Skies
by Aristotle Plato
Summary: A year after Shepherd betrayed the 141, Soap is still suffering from losing his men, and two of his closest friends. But what if Ghost isn't dead? Could his friend be on a mission of vengeance, just like him, to stop a war that never should have started?
1. Chapter 1

_Present day  
>Captain John "Soap" MacTavish<em>

He ignored the soft jingle of his dog tags as he walked, the ground underneath his feet eliciting crunching sounds that were obscenely loud to his ears in the quiet of the afternoon. He stopped when he reached the ditch, still blackened and burnt even after more than a year of weather damage.

Nothing grew there, possibly because the ground had been coated in innocent blood.

MacTavish was overcome with emotion as he knelt down next to the ditch. Anger. Hurt. Betrayal. _Guilt._

He couldn't tell which emotion was strongest within him.

He noticed there were no bodies, no bones, no evidence except for the charred earth. The bodies had probably been carried off by animals, or maybe local villagers had buried the two bodies. MacTavish hoped for the latter.

Even after hearing Shepherd admit to killing his friends, he still refused to believe they were gone. Back at their base, it was so different without them. It was a little too quiet, even though Ghost never made much noise, the surly, arrogant brit was easy to miss, along with his Sergeant, though annoying at times, was not easy to live without.

MacTavish constantly blamed himself. He entrusted Shepherd with his men's lives, told them that they also could trust him, and that mistake had gotten them killed. _His_ mistake killed them. He should have listened to his Lieutenant when he voiced his distrust of the older man, but MacTavish had just brushed off his concerns as paranoia.

If he had only believed him, then they would still be alive today, and maybe Makarov would be dead already.

He was pulled from his thoughts when he felt a hand come down on his shoulder softly. He looked up and relaxed instantly when he saw Nikolai's face looming over him.

"I'm sorry, my friend." He said, his accent thick and tone saddened, not at all like his usual self.

MacTavish shrugged, and looked back to the ditch. He picked up a small black rock and studied it in his hands, turning it over and over.

Nikolai glanced around the area, scanning for danger, then to his watch and back to the Scotsman in front of him.

"We must leave soon. Price will need us back." He said quietly.

MacTavish nodded.

"Aye." He said, his voice sounding stronger than he felt.

He took a deep breath and stood up, giving the area a quick glance before turning away and back to the heli, Nikolai right behind him.

MacTavish slipped the blackened rock into the pocket of his pants. Nikolai noticed the gesture, but made no mention of it, instead, he climbed onto the heli and into the cockpit, starting the engine and doing his usual pre-flight checks.

MacTavish sat down inside the bird, leaning his head against the cool metal walls. He closed his eyes to keep his emotions at bay. But no matter how hard he tried, that feeling of betrayal and guilt lurked, right at the edge of his mind.

He thought that killing Shepherd would help to rid the betrayal, but it didn't. Killing Shepherd didn't bring his friends back, it only made him accept the fact that they were...

He couldn't say, let alone _think_ it. It's just a word, but it's a word that describes two very close friends and cohorts. So he shut his mind. He didn't think. He let it all fade to black, and eventually, he drifted to sleep with the gentle rocking motion of the heli lulling him.


	2. Chapter 2

_One year ago  
>Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley<em>

"Do you have the DSM?" Shepherd asked as Ghost and Roach approached him.

Ghost pulled it from his bag, handing it to the older man.

"We got it, sir." He replied.

"Good, that's one less loose end."

He then pulled his gun and fired, directly at Roach. The younger man was thrown back by the force of the bullet hitting him in the stomach and he landed with a loud _thud_ on the dirt.

"NO!" Ghost yelled, rushing the General, only to be shot in the shoulder, knee, the third bullet just missing his head.

He fell to the ground to with Roach, who was moaning in pain, his hands clasping at his stomach which was torn wide open. Ghost knew he would bleed to death in the next ten minutes without medical treatment. He looked up as Shepherd stood between them, a large gasoline container in his hands. He poured the liquid over both of them and backed away. As he backed away, he threw his cigar to them, catching alight on the flammable liquid on the ground, and on them.

He heard Roach scream in pain as he was engulfed first, then the fire spread to Ghost and he too cried out as it worked its way through his clothes and to his skin. Ghost gagged as the smell of burning flesh infiltrated his nostrils. He cursed Shepherd for betraying them, he cursed his own stupidity for not listening to his gut when he knew the man couldn't be trusted, but lastly, he blamed MacTavish. It was he who practically handed over the lives of himself and Roach.

Ghost heard the General's heli fly off and tried to sit up, trying to stop the flames from killing both himself and Roach. He threw the contents of his water bottle on the burning man. It didn't help much. He tried to roll his friend over, hoping to suffocate the flame, but with Roach thrashing around that made to task difficult, but he managed it.

When both flames on Roach and himself were out, he pulled his bag from his back and opened it, looking for the small med-kit inside. He found some towelling to stem the bleeding and held it on Roach's stomach. He only looked up from his hands when he felt one of Roach's come down on his.

"Forget it, Ghost. I'm dead anyway. My insides are charred, I can feel it." He said, his voice soft and raspy.

Ghost shook his head, defiant and stubborn as always.

"You're going to be fine, I'm going to contact Tav and Price and tell them what's happened, and I'll get Nikolai to get us out of here." He said, his voice bordering onto hysterical.

Roach shook his head.

"We both know that's shit. I won't survive. Just leave me." He said.

Ghost shook his head. He would not leave his friend while he was dying. He couldn't. So he stayed. He sat by Roach's side, holding the bloodied towelling until the young man drew his final breath. He passed out not long after, falling by the dead man's side. Ghost's last thought before his head hit the ground was _"let me die with him."_

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><p>When Ghost woke, his first thought was that it had all been a nightmare. He tried to convince himself that it had all been fake, that it wasn't real. It worked for the first few seconds of consciousness, but as soon as he smelt the remnants of burning flesh, he knew it was real.<p>

Roach was dead.

They'd been betrayed.

He sat up, realising too late that was a bad idea as his body screamed out in pain, but he ignored it and pushed himself to a sitting position. He looked over at Roach, instantly regretting it as bile rose in his throat and he resisted the urge to throw up.

His friend's face was burned, the skin puckered where the fire had melted it. The rest of him wasn't in much better shape.

He didn't cry. He couldn't. Crying was weak, he had had that drilled into him as a child. What would crying over his friend's body achieve? It would not bring him back.

He searched around Roach's neck, looking for his tags. His family would probably want them, as they would be the only thing that they would have of him, it wasn't possible to get his body sent back home. When he found them he pulled them from him. They put up great resistance of being taken from the corpse, and small parts of skin clung to the chain. Ghost flicked the pieces off.

At that moment he knew he wouldn't be able to bury him. Ghost was in no shape to stand, let alone dig a grave for his best friend. This caused him great guilt and pain. Roach deserved a grave, even a shallow, unmarked grave was better than being left out in the open for animals to feast on as they pleased.

Putting the tags in his pocket – what was left of his pocket – he tried to pull himself up from the ground. He succeeded for a second, but fell to his hands and knees when he tried to take a step forward. He needed to take this slow, he couldn't rush this. He tried again, feeling his head spin with the motion of standing up.

He paused in his actions when he heard voices, as faint as they were, but his keen hearing recognised them as voices. He looked around, his heart racing as he looked for somewhere to hide. He spotted some bushes to his right, and crawled as quickly as he could to them. He laid down, keeping his head as low to the ground as he could, but high enough that he could still see.

Two men walked into the clearing. He recognised them as some of Makarov's men. His blood boiled when he thought of that prick. He stayed quiet though and didn't move, waiting for them to leave. They did after about ten or so minutes, but Ghost stayed in the bushes until well after dark. Once he thought it would be safe, he moved, standing and walked on unsteady feet away from the ditch and Roach's body.

He turned back and stared for a second.

"I'm sorry I couldn't protect you." He muttered, before turning away and walking quickly into the cover of the trees in front of him.

He wasn't sure where he was going, but that didn't matter. He was alive and he would get his revenge on Shepherd and that SOB Makarov. It was the least he could do for his friend, for himself, for all the men of Task Force 141 that were lost in this fucked up situation of lies and deceit. In the meantime, he would try and find a way to contact MacTavish and Price so they could team up and take the bastards down, as long as they weren't already dead.


	3. Chapter 3

_Present day_  
><em>Captain John "Soap" MacTavish<em>

As MacTavish stepped down from the bird, he could feel eyes on him. He looked up and saw Price standing outside the building, a worried expression on his face like what a father would give his son.

"John..." He said, but MacTavish put a hand up to silence him.

"I don't want to talk right now. I don't want to talk about that." He whispered, walking past the older man and into the abandoned base they called home, for now.

He walked past the mess hall where Yuri – an ex Russian soldier he had picked up in Serbia – was quietly humming to himself and making dinner for the group on the grounds. MacTavish wasn't hungry, he wasn't in the mood to talk or socialise, so he headed to his quarters and straight to the washroom. He stood in front of the sink, turned the tap and splashed some cold water on his face.

He looked up into the mirror. He looked like shit and he knew it. His eyes were purple and puffy from lack of sleep, his facial hair scruffier than his usual stubble, his small mohawk looked rough and unwashed.

He looked dreadful.

The worst thing was that he had lost weight. A _lot_ of weight. He'd retained the muscle as he routinely worked out, but as he normally didn't have much of an appetite, he'd gotten thinner. He knew Price was always watching him at meal times, making sure he ate enough, but sometimes he'd just push his food around on his plate, making it look like he had eaten something just so he could get away from the mess hall and be alone.

At first, Price had thought it was just a phase he was going through. He knew MacTavish had taken Roach and Ghost's deaths harder than the others, that his inability to eat and sleep would only last a month at the most, but it just kept going. It was only after almost seven months when he realised exactly _why_ he'd taken it so hard. Ghost and Roach meant a lot to him. Both men had taught him things in their own ways that no one else could of. He listened to them more than the others. And because he cared so much – even if he rarely showed it – he blamed himself for it.

It wasn't his fault. It never will be. Their deaths were at the fault of a stupid old man and his deals with a Russian extremist and Price was sick of the "what ifs" that were constantly going through the younger captains head. There was nothing MacTavish could have done to change anything.

But no matter how many times he told him this, MacTavish would just brush it off.

_"It's my fault, Price. They died because I trusted him."_

Yes, he had trusted him, but it was in no way his fault. Shepherd was good at lying, good at hiding his true intentions. Price knew MacTavish would call that an excuse. Price also knew it was the truth.

MacTavish turned the tap off and walked to his bed. Sitting down he let out a long, tired breath and lay back on the mattress. It was old and springy, uncomfortable on his back, but at least it was better than some of the places he had slept on. He fisted his hands and put them over his eyes, pushing on them until bright colours were exploding behind his eyes. He then dragged his hands down the sides of his face.

Today marked a year. A year without his best friends. A year after he killed one of the men responsible for their deaths. A year after he planned his mission of revenge and vengeance. He would finish what he started, what the 141 started.

He would close the loose end, that loose end being Makarov.


	4. Chapter 4

_7 months ago  
>Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley<em>

It had taken him five months to heal physically from the ordeal. Mentally, he would probably never recover, but he pushed the images and memories of that day behind a wall, a wall he hoped to never scale. It had taken him a week in his bad shape to reach the closest village that wasn't hostile towards him. Once there, he sought medical treatment – as minimal as it was – and was on his way. While at the village, he found an old radio and used it to contact MacTavish and the others. There was no response, so he moved on.

A small part of him told him they were dead, but he kept a small amount of hope alive inside himself that they were alive. Logically that seemed incorrect, but he would push those thoughts from his mind and concentrate on collecting at much Intel on Makarov and what was left of the 141, which was close to nothing on both subjects.

But when he slept, he couldn't not think about it. His mind kept playing made up images of Price and MacTavish dead or dying. Horrible images of them being tortured and interrogated by unknown figures. Worst of all, he always dreamed of Roach, burning alive, screaming, begging for Ghost to help him.

This would wake Ghost. He would wipe the sheet of cold sweat from his forehead, get up and pack his things and leave where ever it was he happened to be at the time, and find another place to stay. This would result in lack of sleep and hallucinations. They were worse than the dreams. His mind would play tricks, pretend Tangos were hiding in the trees or grass hunting him down. After hours of running from invisible men, he would collapse with exhaustion and pass out, only to wake hours later after having a nightmare.

It was a sad existence, and he figured it would never get better. He was having trouble coping with the post-traumatic stress and isolation. He liked being alone, but this was fucking ridiculous. He was lucky to see one person during the week, let alone one who could understand him.

Right now he had taken refuge in the house of an old farmer. The old man spoke little English, but enough that Ghost could understand him. The older man lived with his family. A wife, two daughters and a young son. He didn't speak with the family much, he didn't speak to the farmer either unless it was necessary as he didn't want to create emotional ties. He told them nothing about himself, and they didn't ask questions.

He would leave soon. He had to keep moving.


	5. Chapter 5

Hey guys, it's been a while.  
>Well, I'm back! ... Ehhh, sort of.<p>

I had a few issues with my computer for the last almost year... It deleted everything, and then the charger broke.  
>Thankfully, the charger problem was fixed pretty quickly, except all my files were gone, and then I started year 11 and things got fucked up, so I had very little or no time at all to write, and in the past year with all this happening, I quickly lost my motivation to write. In between all this shit, I also found out I have moderate depression.<p>

Go figure.

But finally, I re-found my account! And pretty quickly found the fics here, so I now have them back on my laptop... Well, except one. It was deleted by the mods here a while ago. Apparently I breached some guideline about stating whether a fic was explicit or not, when I was pretty sure I had... But anyway, that's neither here nor there.

I hope I'm back for good, and for those wondering, yes, **_I will be continuing Butane Skies_**, (as you can tell, cause here's chapter 5!) and I am sure there will be many PWPs to come.

Also, I have changed a few things with the story line:

**1)** In chapter four, I had the timeline at 10 months ago. I have now changed that to 7 months ago.  
>I realised while reading through my notes that my timeline wouldn't come together and there would be huge gaps in the story.<p>

**2)**I think I may have changed a few things in previous chapters. They may or may not be noticeable for you, but me they were big-ish changes. You may like to go over them.

Oh! And may I add, I have created a cover for this story. My (shoddy) photoshoping skills created this, and I hope it sort of fits. A part of it can be seen here. It should be a little blue, smokey skull. (Full images can be found here: bitch-nipple dot tumblr dot com forwardslash butaneskiescover. Just put a fullstop where it says 'dot' and a /).

Also, I'm not sure if you guys have gathered yet, but somehow, someway, I will insert _**slash**_. This will either be in** PG form or full out homosexual relations and buttfuckery**. (heh, buttfuckery).

Just warning you all, and making it clear so I get no hate in the future.

Lots of love guys! xoxo ~AP

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><p><strong>Review Response:<strong>

**junkieoctober** 23rd Dec 2011:  
>Hey, you really do? Awesome!<br>I definitely will let you read some more now that I'm back! Hope you're still around, friend.

**Hyarou **26th Dec 2011:  
>Yes yes. I loved that line too, but writing it made me tear up a little :'(<br>Me too, hun, me too.

**GHOST oo007** 3rd Feb 2012:  
>HOLY FUCK YOU COMMENTED ON MY WORK OMG OMG OMG OMG OMGFJBSKC (fangirl moment, you're like my favourite writer here on FF net)<br>And yes, I am keeping up with it ^_^

**Lisbet Adair **29th July 2012:  
>I hope it does go somewhere interesting, otherwise it'd be a total fail D:<p>

Yes, I am working on writing that now. But you know, Ghost is a tough fucker, but yes, the lack of kit would be a concern of his.  
>I think he's more concerned with surviving, but then I guess being turned in would fall into that too. I think he is a little bit concerned, but honestly I don't think he'd worry too much as he moves from place to place rather quickly, before the farmers figure out <em>exactly <em>who he is. But those are good points to bring up.

**STAILS565 **3rd Dec 2012:  
>I am continuing this, don't ya worry your little socks off, haha.<br>I'm glad you're loving it!

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><p><em>Present Day<br>__John "Soap" MacTavish_

"Your wound looks like it's completely healed. I'd still take it easy if I were you." Nikolai said as he handed Soap his shirt.

The Scot slipped his shirt back on and thanked his Russian comrade, but waved the warning off.

"I'll be fine." He stated, getting up from the examination bench. "Just need to get back in the action now." He smirked.

"Da," Nikolai responded, almost to himself.

He turned away from Soap and started out the door of the room he had set up as a medical station. He motioned with his hand for Soap to follow him.

"Yuri found some information that may be helpful in finding Makarov," He explained. "I already told Price but have not shown him as I had to deal with you. But I will show you now."

Soap nodded and followed him into the room where they'd set up an old computer and a laggy internet connection. It was slow and really shitty, but it did its job.

As Nikolai had said, Price was already in the room. He was leaning back on his chair, smoking a cigar and chatting quietly with Yuri. Both men stopped talking and looked up as Nikolai and Soap walked in. Soap nodded at them both in turn.

"Yuri, show them." Nikolai said.

Yuri cleared his throat and walked to the computer. He brought up a few files and opened some papers.

He brought up a video on some news website with the headline of "Russian President Gone Missing".  
>Soap narrowed his eyes. He'd only heard a tiny bit about what had happened, and had instantly thought it was Makarov.<br>The president never made it to Hamburg. He was supposed to attend a summit about a peace treaty… This put the entire world in a delicate place.

"Looks like Makarov just played his next hand." He stated.

Price looked at him askew, then back to the video that was still playing.

"If he puts himself back on the gird, he wants it to be known." Price added.

"So where do we start hunting?"

"Africa," Yuri stated. "Sierra Leone." He pulled up a few more files on the computer, images this time, and a few folders: 'makarov', 'manhattan', 'pirates', 'president' and 'sierra_leone'. He opened the folder named 'sierra_leone', which contained images of what Soap thought were mercenaries or paramilitary.

"Makarov's been using local paramilitary group to move shipments into Sierra Leone." He stood back and walked over towards the map on the wall, pointing to different places on it.

"From there, they go towards Morocco, and into Spain."

Soap's eyes narrowed further when he joined all the links on the map. "He's moving north."

"Right toward her majesty's doorstep, won't she be pleased?" Price said gravely.

"What's the cargo?" Soap questioned.

"I don't know… But it's important to him." Yuri spoke, turning back to the other men.

"Then I want it."

Soap walked over and inspected the map, in particular, Sierra Leone. He saw a river just outside Sherbro, to the south of the country and near where Makarov was sending shipment.  
>He pointed to the spot.<p>

"We can use this river to get in close. There's the factory where they store the shipments. But the PRF's been waging genocide in the highlands for months. They'll be everywhere." Soap stated.

"Makarov wouldn't let this travel lightly if it didn't serve a greater purpose… And chances are the bastard will be there personally to see things off." Price said with a nod, pointing towards the paper work stuck up on the wall.

"If Makarov's back on the gird, then so are we." Soap finished.

"Planning will be needed." Yuri stated. "I'll get on it now so we can get going on this."

"When is the next shipment?" Price asked.

"Two months."

Price nodded. "Let's get started on that research then." He said, standing up and moving in front of the computer, Yuri followed and stood behind the older Captain.

Soap watched the scene for a few seconds, then turned to leave, hoping to get some training in before he turned in for the night.  
>A hand on his shoulder stopped him from leaving.<p>

"You sure you will be okay for this?" Nikolai said quietly so the other men couldn't hear.

Soap nodded. "I'm fine. You said I'm healed."

Nikolai nodded. "Da, but there is a difference between being healed and being ready."

Soap sighed. "I have to do this, Nik."

"Ghost…" Nikolai stated.

Soap cringed a little. He'd not mentioned his friend's name in a long time, and nobody else had mentioned the lieutenant to him, and for good reason. He could already feel the emotions welling up inside him.

"Yes."

Nikolai nodded, patted his shoulder and let him go, but not without one last worried look at his friend.

"Nik," Yuri called to his friend. "Come help."

Nikolai nodded. "Da. Be right there."


	6. Chapter 6

**Oh hey, look another chapter! That was quick.**

**I have decided to put my self on an update schedule. If all goes according to plan, I should be able to update a chapter a fortnight.**  
><strong>Also, I have started writing another fic. It's different to this... <strong>**_Very different. _****I would explain, but it's better if you read it. I should have the first chapter ready in the coming week.**

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><p><strong>Review Response:<br>Amariela **8th Dec 2012:  
>It's great to be back! You will definitely see more from me soon!<p>

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><p><em>Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley<br>6 months ago_

"Shit!" Ghost threw ACR aside. He'd run out of ammo, and there was still a patrol of about six footmen in between the shrubs and bushes. He had to think fast. They would soon realise he was now unarmed, and they would advance on him and squash him like a bug.

He looked around his surroundings, judging whether or not he would be able to make it to the thickening woodland to his left in time, or if they would cut him down as he ran.

They'd stopped firing, it was too late to think further, so he ran as fast as his injured body could – which was still faster than those soldiers – and into the woodland.

He couldn't believe how stupid he'd been. He had a false hope that maybe the base he had come across was deserted, that maybe there would be left over weapons and ammunition inside.  
>The thought of being stealthy hadn't even occurred to him. It was a stupid mistake and ended in him being shot in his shoulder and hip.<p>

At one point he got into a punch up with one of the men, both falling to the ground heavily as they fought like wild dogs for survival.

Obviously, Ghost came out on top.

He kept running, even though his lungs burned and his body started to ache. He couldn't let them catch up.  
>He saw in the distance a house. He really should have thought about the possible chance that it was inhabited, but his survival instincts kicked in and he pushed himself faster towards the house, hoping against all hope that in the setting of the sun they would not see him in the shadows.<p>

He reached the house and ran along it, finding a window. He pushed it open and clambered inside, falling as he did so. He lay on the ground, catching his breath, panting heavily.  
>He pushed himself up and stood in what looked like a kitchen, although, in the dark, he couldn't be sure.<br>Quietly, he made his way through the kitchen and out through the door way closest to him. There was a low fire burning in the fireplace.  
>Someone lived here.<p>

He made sure he was extra quiet as he made his way to find the front door so he could be on his way, but the sound of quiet foot steps behind him made him stop and turn around.  
>He was smacked across the face by something metal, and at first he thought it was one of the soldiers who had chased him.<br>He wouldn't know if it was the men chasing him or not. As soon as he hit the ground, he blacked out.

* * *

><p>"Mama, we should turn him in. They will kill us if we don't and they find him."<p>

"He is British like your father! He would roll over in his grave if we turned him over."

"Mama!"

"Quiet your mouth. You'll scare him!"

As Ghost slowly woke up, he kept his eyes shut, mostly because he had a raging headache. The conversation above him confused him. He could hear the obvious Russian accents, but they were speaking broken English.  
>He stayed still, not moving a single muscle.<p>

"Get me some water." A woman's voice said.

Ghost heard a man grunt from somewhere above him, then move away, probably into the kitchen. He felt a hand touch his forehead, and with quick reflexes he grabbed the person's wrist and sat up. It was an older woman; she must have been in her sixty's, all wrinkled and gray haired.

She didn't make a sound when he grabbed her wrist the way he did, she didn't even flinch. He could tell she was a tough woman.

He heard footsteps coming from the kitchen and looked towards it. The man had come back with a bowl, most definitely filled with water. He couldn't have been older than Ghost himself, but his features, the way he stood, told Ghost he'd been through war, had maybe been a soldier himself. He stopped when he saw Ghost gripping the older woman's wrist and he snarled.

The woman raised her other hand and told the man to come sit down, and to bring the water. By this point Ghost was beyond confused.

"Just what the bollocks is goin' on 'ere?" He croaked, his throat dry.

The woman smiled pleasantly at him.

"You came into our house. My son here hit you with a pot because he thought you were escaped criminal. There were men chasing after you." She said. Her English was excellent for where she lived, in the middle of nowhere, but her heavy accent made it a little difficult for Ghost to understand. "But it matters not. You are injured." She continued, her hands moving to his shoulder and hip.

He shied away from her, still weary and not thinking straight.

She obviously understood his body language, as she moved away from him a bit, giving him room to get his bearings.

"You are British soldier, yes?" She asked, nodding to the British Flag insignia on his uniform.

He nodded in response, and her smile widened.

"My late husband was British. He was good man." She said, picking up the bowl of water and placing it in front of him and handed him a towel. "Clean yourself up. You need it."

She stood up and moved into the kitchen, leaving her son in the room with him. Ghost looked up at him and wasn't surprised to see him snarling in his direction. Ghost shrugged it off.  
>He pulled his mask from his head and laid it on the ground next to him, then pulled his armour, jacket and shirt off, leaving him in his thick pants and boots.<p>

Carefully, he started to wash the grime off his face, chest and arms, being incredibly careful around his injured shoulder. The bullet had only nicked him, but it would still be a cause for concern if he did not treat it properly.

"You are soldier?" The man asked.

Ghost snorted. "What's left of one." He said coarsely.

The other man tilted his head to one side and looked at Ghost, confusion evident in his expression at Ghost's tone and words.

"It's a long story." Ghost sighed, putting the wash cloth down.

"I have a lot of time." He responded.

Ghost shrugged and picked at his dirty nails. He wasn't about to tell this stranger what had happened to him during the past 6 months. It hurt him to even think about what had happened, let alone tell someone else. He understood the man's curiosity, cause hell, there was an unknown soldier in his house, but he was not going to feed it, not unless he had good cause to divulge that information to him.

"I would like to know." He said.

"I'd rather not tell you. No offense, but for all I know you could be waiting to for me to reveal who I am and turn me in." Ghost said.

Before the man could respond, the older woman came back into the room, this time with a candle and a small box, filled with what he hoped was medical supplies, however meagre they may be.

"Ivann stop pestering him." She said, kicking his foot as she walked past him to sit cross legged in front on Ghost.

She put the box on the ground in front of him and opened it, picking out what she needed to fix him up. She wet some cotton with what he assumed was rubbing alcohol and placed it on his shoulder. It burned, but he made no sound or gave any indication that it hurt at all. She placed his hand on the cotton for him to hold in place while she searched for some more.  
>She looked up at him, a little sheepishly.<p>

"Your hip is injured. You'll have to remove your trousers." She spoke.

Ghost had actually forgotten that his hip had been hit while he was running, and when she brought it up he could feel the numb throbbing of pain there.  
>But he still made no move to get up and take his pants off. He could fix his own wounds.<p>

She smiled when she saw the stubborn line of his jaw and chuckled. "I only want to clean your wound. My son was soldier too, I know what I am doing."

He narrowed his eyes slightly, but sat up a little and pulled his pants a ways down so his hip was exposed. Again, the woman chuckled. "You are very like my husband. Stubborn."  
>She wiped the cotton over his hip, holding it in place while she reached up and pulled the other away from his shoulder. She then quickly sewed the wound up, covering it in a bandage, repeating the action on his hip.<p>

"Thank you." He said quietly.

She smiled in response and stood up, facing her son.

"Let him borrow some of your clothes."

Ivann nodded and stood up, walking towards the staircase he could only just see in the dim lighting. The woman turned back to face him and smiled warmly. She pulled a chair out and sat down in it, then moved her hand over the others. "You can sit if you want."

Ghost shook his head. "I'm alright."

She nodded and continued to look at him, curiously. He could feel her eyes traveling across his chest, taking in every mark from the burns he had sustained – which anyone could tell had healed poorly – every single scar that marred his torso and face. He did not see anything other than warmth and a kind of sadness in her eyes. It was not a pitying look, he knew. He could tell she had seen probably similar things that he had seen in his live. And as she had said, her husband had been a soldier.

"You have been through a lot, haven't you?" She asked.

Ghost nodded. "A lot more than I care to discuss." He said, pulling his shirt back on, covering his marred skin.

She nodded and smiled sadly. Her back was straight, almost too straight. She sat still, he couldn't even tell she was breathing unless he looked closely. Her hands were clasped together in her lap. She was definitely a military woman, or her father had been, and having a husband who was in the British army added to the military background he sensed from her.

Right then Ivann came back down the stairs, carrying clothing with him as he did. He handed them to Ghost and he took them from him, muttering a thank you as he sat them in his lap.  
>He didn't move to change. Not because he was ashamed or didn't like being naked, but because it made him feel vulnerable, especially in front of people he didn't know. Sitting there without his shirt under the woman's gaze had made him feel practically bare, but having her son back down here and her present too would be unbearable.<br>So he would wait until they left so he could change, which he guessed wouldn't be for a long while.

The three of them chatted for a while longer. Not really about anything important, just useless things.  
>Although, he did learn the woman's name: Anja Fomenkov. Obviously that was probably her maiden name. He doubted her British husband would have had a Russian last name. But it didn't matter; he'd had enough proof that he had been British. She'd shown Ghost photos of the man, she even still had his uniform.<br>She never mentioned his name though, and Ghost didn't push it. If she didn't want to tell him, that was fine.

He also learned that Ivann had been in the military also, along with his older brother Markov. Both boys had fought in the heat of battle, but only one made it back, and the one that survived had been giving leave for serious injuries. Ivann hadn't been too pleased about it, but what more could he do?

After learning all this, he knew he could trust this woman, and by association, her son.


End file.
